


Flowers are Only Good for Hiding the Sword

by Angel_of_Destruction



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Arguing, Artist Grantaire, Asexual Enjolras, Café Musain, Canon Era, Cynic Grantaire, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Flirting, Drunkenness, ENTJ Enjolras, ENTP Grantaire, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, French Revolution, Grantaire Angst, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, M/M, Masochist Grantaire, Original Character(s), Painter Grantaire, Patriotism, Pining, Platonic Romance, Poetic, Romantic Angst, Stoic Enjolras, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 17:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17709026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_of_Destruction/pseuds/Angel_of_Destruction
Summary: It's evening and the meeting ended in the Café Musain. Grantaire is apparently not in the mood to leave.A late night conversation with revolutionary passion and angst.





	Flowers are Only Good for Hiding the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own the characters.

 

“Let me paint you.”

He said, and Enjolras shuddered beneath the eagerness of the words. Was it really pleading?

“Let me paint you. Let me make you immortal on my canvas - because the mission you are chasing to fulfill is going to kill you.”

The voice was silent, hoarse, almost like a husky whisper in a troublesome night. The shadows were thick and Grantaire revealed himself, making a little move in the corner. He stepped out of the benevolent darkness, the light of the candles illuminated his face. It was indecent how he managed to find a way to sneak in and hide, till the perfect moment arrived. Till there was no one else in the Café but Enjolras. The blonde hadn’t seen him during the meeting. Or at least, he didn’t pay attention. Who knows how long had he been watching them. Him. It was uncomfortable.

“There is always something greater than us.” Enjolras said. Turning his back to hide his surprise and growing fury he walked to the counter. Many empty and half empty cups rested on it, the tang of alcohol was lingering in the air around them. He placed his hand on the backrest of a seat. “Something greater, something vast, that we must encounter with and experience the utter annihilation. Extinction. That’s the circle of life.”

“But why should we hurry it? Why should we try to reach this greater force, well, whatever it is, if we eventually fall?”

Enjolras sent him a judging glance.

“Look at yourself. Look who is hurrying death.” spoke, referring to the bottle in the dark-haired man’s hand. It was practically an equipment of his, something that Grantaire didn’t exist without. It became the part of his image.

“It’s preparation.” Grantaire replied in a know-it-all tone. “What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger.” added and took a wild sip, like his rebellious words were not enough. He wanted to rebel with his actions too.

Enjolras muttered, inaudibly, his fingers started tapping on the chair. Tapping a slow yet irritated rhythm. Like it was something that helped him to keep his equilibrium. It was always so easy to lose control and lash out whenever Grantaire was around. He didn’t want to give him this satisfaction anymore, because, he was almost sure it was the cynic’s purpose: to see him furious. He wanted to see him lose control, like a simple human would. So perhaps he could prove, that even though, Enjolras was the leader, he was a simple human. Just like everyone else.

He sensed, without looking, he sensed from the corner of his eyes that Grantaire was watching him. He was uncouth, he was shameless with his stares. No one dared to stare at him as openly and cheekily as this piece of useless thing.

The useless thing talked.

“You think you know what the people need.”

“They need what I need, what every normal citizen needs. Equality. Freedom. Respect. Dignity. Legitim…”

“You are not a normal citizen. You are above them. How would you know what they need when you are not among them but leading them?”

“Are you questioning my appropriateness? Go ahead, organize them, lead them. Who stops you from doing that?”

“Why do you think that what you do is the right thing to do?”

The question punched him in the stomach. His lips parted, searching for the words.

“Because I see the problem and I know the solution. I'm one of the people, so I want the same as they do. I possess the same human needs.”

“I would argue with this…” Grantaire muttered and caught the blue glance.

“Something for something. I have to sacrifice my ordinary side in order to achieve something above the ordinary.”

“You're sacrificing your _human_ side. And from that moment, when you throw it away and become a god, how would you know what the simple people want and need?”

“Don't call it a god, or if you really do, I’m telling you, you should be afraid of my wrath. You are wasting my time.”

The anger in his eyes was evident now, but Grantaire didn’t retreat. He walked to him with his eyes narrowed, wearing a curious, cynical expression.

“Don’t you think that, if it was possible, someone would have done something already, to improve the current situation? To make everything better?”

“That is the problem. I see despair.” Enjolras spoke, slowly pronouncing the words as if he was talking to a five-years-old. “The people don't trust themselves, they don't have faith, they don't believe that they are actually _capable_ of doing something! They have to be taught, they must realize that they have the strength, they _alone_ have the power to do it. Their words matter. They have the power!”

“And how do you want to explain this to them?”

“I will show them an example, so they will see that even one person can bring a change.”

“You are not their equal then. You are different. If everyone was like you, 'showing an example' would have happened a long time ago.”

“Perhaps I have more faith.”

“That’s it. So you're not like them.”

“I'm _one of them_." He said with growing irritation in his voice. "Ergo, I experience what they experience. I know what they need. Because I need it too, I want the same - only I have sacrificed that little piece of me that chained me to the ground, so I could rise and see the whole scenario from up above. I'm part of it, yet I see it all, from a different perspective!”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed as he watched the impeccable face front of him. “Maybe you should come back to earth sometimes. To me.”

“You are incapable of being serious!”

“Incorrect. I just don’t understand you.”

“You don’t have to.” The blonde raised his voice. His tone turned tough and unmerciful. “You _can’t_.”

They were ice cold, vicious words, like a slap right across the face. But Grantaire liked to be slapped by him. He liked to take every single punch of words and fine insults, because, deep down, he felt he deserved them. It was like a personal suffer, a torment he was willing to apply for and endure. Like sacrificing himself on the altar of something pretty, atoning for his sins and the fact he was incapable of being serious. Yes. It was something he needed. It was a perfect punishment for the mistake that he came to this life, that he was born.

His sly eyes glittered with a perverted satisfaction and he glanced at Enjolras. He noticed the black circles under his eyes, the tired gleam in his eyes, the little change of the shadows on his appearance. His posture was far from proud now. He lost some weight again. He knew every single inch of this man, because he observed him like an artist observes his object of inspiration. His idol. A thing he cannot reach, therefore he desires it.

He watched Enjolras whenever he had the chance to do so; when he was walking on the street, when he was talking to random people, when he order food or drink; during his speeches, the fiery monologues, the readings, the fervent comebacks during a debate; the moments when he was silent, when he covered himself with the blanket of a strange melancholy and stayed calm and so wise, like a thousand years old philosopher, sitting on a chair and watching the others who debated like wild animals – _intellectuals_ , Grantaire chuckled at the absurdity of the scenes. He could shift from the condition of Chaos to Cosmos and, all of a sudden, he became the embodiment of peace. He could be the judge, cold inspector, the shadow. The petrified time. The silent enigma. The lurking conscience of them all. From the Sun, egocentric, blinding, shiny, fiery, burning and bright – he could return to the background and watched like a Moon. Like Grantaire watched him.

Sometimes he returned to himself because he was so busy with taming the chaos inside his head – because Enjolras’ head was always buzzing with ideas, one could worry that one day he goes insane. He would certainly go, if he is not able to burn something, the Great Enemy, with his eternal and destructive fire inside. It was bound to be released. Otherwise he would burn in his own flame.

Maybe it was his destiny.

And sometimes… Grantaire noticed in between a period of sobering up and getting drunk again, that his Apollo looked sad. Not the type of sad, the "human type of sad" that resulted the bleeding of emotions – tears - but the melancholic and too-old-soul type of sad. Like he had been there once. Like he had known everything. He had seen everything. Like nothing could surprise him anymore. Like he was a wandering soul of an old man, being captured and locked inside a young boy’s body, unable to escape. Unable to make others understand him. Grantaire watched him and created hundreds of small sketches of pencil and coal – treasuring the shades of his moods, the little changes and shifts, the change of his posture, his every atom and fiber. The odd, chaste gleam in his glance, how he refused to look at anyone when the topic was not about his revolution, how he could suddenly lose the interest to mingle with these people, to bear the weight of an eye contact. How his eyes were fixed on a spot, somewhere, behind everyone and everything, he was watching something that only he could see. He was deep in his thoughts, all alone on his isolated throne, searching for something, or perhaps chasing something, or running from an idea. Running from himself. Maybe he was full of doubts in those moments.

And Grantaire noticed these, even during the wildest carousing activities, because, with a secret glance, he used to check the blonde leader – the leader in red attracted his eyes, even when he was intoxicated and dead drunk. Like the flame attracts the vile moth. He saw the red spot from the corner of his eyes, even if he refused to look at him directly, even if he tried to go blind. It was always there, being carved into his mind, following him, haunting him, like a nightmare and he realized, he didn’t want to wake up. He would never try to wake up from this. Because it made him feel. It made him feel awfully real. It didn’t numb him like everything else. It flogged his senses and thoughts to life.

“I can't... How would you know? You have a little bit limited opinion on me.” he noted, observing his bottle. He swirled the drink in it, watching how the liquid embraced the interior of the glass-material. “Let me paint you and we see who can understand who. Who can see _what_.”

Enjolras looked away, shaking his head with disbelief.

 “What are you doing here?”

“I am here to see you. And I condemn you for this.” Grantaire replied. He started walking in the room, absentmindedly, his eyes scanning the Café’s interior like it was the first time he was seeing it. His moves revealed he was perfectly tipsy and close to be perfectly drunk. “I condemn you for hiding yourself. For avoiding me. For forbidding me to look at you, to look and watch, as long as I wish to. To have my own, little, miserable fun.”

“You are pathetic.”

“I am just myself.”

Enjolras let the chair go and started walking toward him with an intimidating look on his face. Despite the tiredness his eyes sparked with an unmerciful fire. Lighting up Grantaire’s whole day and night. His whole life.

“Cease.”

“How dare you…”

“You are not making _anything_ easier to me.”

Grantaire’s heart started racing. He grinned, like a brat.

“Maybe my purpose is to make _everything_ harder.”

He was secretly expecting a slap.

“Go away.”

The light of the candles danced on his skin, touched it like a daring hand. Touched Enjolras the way Grantaire yearned to touch. He watched the light, how the cheeks, the line of the jaw, the curve of the neck bathed in its simple glory – shimmering like a fine metal, like iron, mercurial beauty that could disappear in a blink of an eye - leaving Grantaire, forsaking him like it was just an illusion. Nothing more.

Suddenly, he forgot to breathe, because Enjolras grabbed his blood red coat that rested on a table and, without wounding him more, deeper, he rushed toward the stairs. He felt a familiar squeeze in his throat, like invisible hands grabbed his neck and started to strangle. His thoughts, like the cloud of alcohol vanished, were all clear now. This cleared his head, seeing him leave.

“Please, don’t go.”

It was trite. Like he was begging for usury. Like he was a scum once again, losing the momentary illusion of having an upper hand. Once again, he was defeated, he crawled on all fours in the mud and dirt.

“Don’t go. Please. I truly am an idiot.”

He didn’t believe in the magic of his words. He didn’t even dare to open his eyes – he squeezed them shut instead, covering his face with a hand. Rubbing it, like he wanted to remove the heaviness of the alcohol, like he wanted to remove his own face just to find a more appropriate.

He couldn’t see that the blonde stopped at the stairs. Like the begging could stir his icy heart. But even the stupid could see it was not the case. It was never the case. Nothing and no one could make Enjolras interested in personal issues, in emotional issues. He didn’t care. He cared when he was curious. He cared when it was strategically beneficial to him. And he had little problem admitting it. Was this narrow-mindedness? Was this obduracy? For Grantaire, it was cruelty, because his idol slayed the ones he despised, he slayed them too early, too fast, too thoroughly. He slayed him too.

Enjolras stayed at the top of the stairs, resting his hand on the wooden railing. With silent interest, he watched the other, the visible suffer on his face. Maybe he was annoyed, but questions started awakening in his head. He was way too sleepy, way too tired, way too defocused to deal with a nuisance like Grantaire. Because the man drove him mad with his behaviour, his endless talk, the countless ways he tried to irritate him, the illogical ways he acted and his useless presence he granted them all with. He wasn’t even interested in any single word they were talking about in the Café, all he did was sabotaging their progress. He was a burden. Especially for him.

 “I have things to do, things that actually make sense. You are not making any sense.”

“Neither you are, sometimes. But you are beautiful.” Grantaire rambled. His overconfident demeanor broke, and Enjolras felt a little victory. However, the feeling of triumph vanished when the other looked into his eyes. “Let me paint you…”

“You wish to treasure me for the future. I wouldn’t even be surprised if you wanted to treasure me for _yourself._ ”

“Yes, you wouldn’t be surprised...” Grantaire murmured like a kid that was caught on doing something nasty.

“What if there won’t be future to show it for? My beauty, as you called it, will not save anyone. My words will. Treasure my words instead.”

 “…but how could I, when most of your words are so vague to me? Speaking to you is… A real challenge to me, you know. It is like an oral duel.”

Enjolras arched a brow.

“I feel sorry for you.” he said finally, without any tenderness or sympathy in his tone. “I would rather die than stay immortal on a canvas of a drunkard for mere entertainment. I am not an emperor to provide panem et circenses. I am a citizen who demands freedom and the downfall of emperors and all the tyranny that infects this world!”

Grantaire shrugged lazier than he truly felt and took a sip of wine.

“Yes, I would worship you for that.” he slurred, not really thinking before he talked.

Enjolras furrowed his brows. Pursing his lips, he closed the space between them with some daring steps. He received a look of silent excitement that made him click his tongue with disapproval.

“Would you worship me? I would rather you found me repulsive.”

“That is… impossible.” Grantaire said and shook his head with a little laugh. His nearness was overwhelming, just like his words.

“It is an order!” The blonde gritted his teeth. Why did he want to push him away so ferociously? Did he fear this drunkard might drag him back to earth?

“I am not following your orders.” Grantaire said simply, keeping the eye contact stubbornly this time. “As you are not my leader of this revolution.”

He grabbed his collar, yanking him closer with a rough move. “So what am I to you?”

“The light. In the dark where I wished to get lost.” He sighed and suddenly it was a relief. “But now, I can’t. You lead me out of it without a word. You lead me out, from known to unknown. And I follow you willingly. I don’t need orders for that.”

“You should be aware of the fact where you are going…” Enjolras grimaced and let him go. His flawless face was ruined by the expression of pure disdain. Maybe disgust?  “I don’t want you to follow a person. You’d better follow an _idea_.”

“Then you are the embodiment of this idea that I choose to follow.”

The long silence let them hear each other’s breathing. Enjolras, the one that was unable to rest, to stay calm, created a space between them – making the other to breathe easier. Maybe he liked the witty use of words, the loyalty. Either way, he didn’t show any visible appreciation. He took it granted, the fact that people followed him. He was born to lead.

“Sometimes insignificant things become so important.” He said, frowning a little like he was talking to himself. “Sometimes we can’t make a difference between useful act and useless act because everything has an outcome. Therefore, we must do whatever we can, must fight till our last drop of blood and last breath, in order to bring a change. When no one acts… Stagnation eats the people. Stagnation anesthetizes. Soon everything will rot here. If we are not pushing the wheel of history with the right cooperation, zeal and leadership.” His cheeks flushed by the passion that fueled him. He fixed his eyes on the wall of the Café. His face was bothered, clouds of despair and a never-ending conflict weighed his features. Did this terribly inexorable creature doubt himself? Did he lack a proper tool and power to bring his desired paradise? Was he selfish to toss everyone around him into this abyss just because he wanted to break out of his shell?

“How vicious…” Grantaire muttered. His head was heavy with the wine. “How vicious is to see you suffer like that! Manacled by your own holy mission’s terrible weight.”

“You don’t have to look.” Enjolras said coolly.

“I can’t look away."

“I see things.” The blonde’s tone was sharp, he ignored the lingering desire, the coy lust that lurked behind the man’s words. He walked to the little window with big, unstoppable steps and glanced through the dirty glass to see the world. Like a conqueror, ready to devour it all. “I see things that may never occur. But I see and feel them, each, and every day, daylight and in my dreams, so vividly like they have happened already. I see them happening here. With us. With everyone!”

“See me.”

“Why? What help are you doing?”

“I am standing beside you no matter what. I will be your shadow!”

The silence stretched. Grantaire waited a little, but still didn’t want to go back to his hotel room. He found a seat and sat, placing his legs on the desk. He stretched for an empty cup, checked it, then put it back on the wooden surface. He continued the drinking that way. The moonshine sneaked through the window in such a satisfying way, that, if he hadn't been a supernatural-skeptic, he would have found the view poetic. But now, seeing Enjolras bathing in the silvery light, he found it artistic.

“I want this to last forever.” He said, looking at the wooden ceiling with a faint smile. “This moment.”

“Don’t be immature. The world is changing day by day.”

“Why? Why can’t I dream?”

“Because you are deluded by your illusions.”

“You are deluded by yours too.”

Enjolras scoffed. He lifted his chin and kept his piercing gaze on the night sky outside.

“At least mines lead somewhere. Yours don’t.”

“Mines lead to love.” Grantaire said softly and he knew his words were not impressive.

Enjorlas turned, glancing at the sitting figure and replied with a cold calmness.

“Love ends. History doesn’t.”

He was ready to go once again but the sitting figure suddenly stood up and hindered his way with his whole body. There was some too honest emotional gleam in his green eyes.

“Even though I didn't want to tell, well, maybe you don’t notice it, but you hurt me...”

“You choose to be hurt. And you are drunk.”

The words were so cruel that Grantaire hissed. Without hesitation he pulled the blonde close to him by the neck, trying to kiss him but Enjolras placed a hand on his chest and pushed him away. He was surprisingly gentle but firm. A golden curl of hair fell to his face, he blinked rapidly and ran his glance down the man front of him. Then freed himself with a deft move and without saying a word he rushed toward the stairs.

“Can I come tomorrow?” Grantaire asked, leaning against the desk with a dismissive sigh.

Enjolras stopped, his brows furrowed like he was thinking.

“Leave your sentiments at home.”

He said and ran down the stairs.  
Soon, the door of the Café was slammed as he left the building.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please leave feedback!


End file.
